


ever wavering

by boltlightning



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Kingdom Hearts I, Pre-Kingdom Hearts II, im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late one winter night, he leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ever wavering

Perhaps it is premonition or fate, but she is woken at the pristine moment. 

It is a difficult sensation to describe. A tingling in her feet, a soft tug on her clavicle – it drags her from unconsciousness. She sits up, frowning, confusion amplified by her drowsiness. By force of habit, she glances out the window. 

A single man walks along the snow-ridden paths, a prick of scarlet upon the unblemished winter scene. She recognizes his gait on sight. His cloak billows in the gentle wind, and she can see the hulk of his sword even from a distance, unremarkable but for its size. Wrapped in ragged linen bandages, the Buster Sword leans effortlessly in his hands as he walks away, leaving black footprints in his wake.

He is leaving.

Aerith has a moment of clarity, and as soon as it is over, she tosses on the thin jacket she had left next to her bed and crams on her boots. She is flying down the stairs within minutes of her waking.

“Cloud!” she calls, stumbling, but he comes to a stop as she falls after him. He does not turn, does not even acknowledge her presence. The wind tears at her eyes and leaves them burning, forcing tears to well at the edges. She is close enough to hear his breathing below the wind, yet he still does not meet her. Without bothering to wipe at her eyes, Aerith wraps her arms around his chest and presses her cheek between his shoulder blades.

His cloak still smells of sand. Between the layers of fabric, she can feel his spine, his ribcage. She hears the gentle cycle of his breathing but little else, and she is reminded that this man before him is all bone and nothing more. There is little about him that remains besides his lean frame; the wind has worn him down to an outline of his former self, a rapidly deteriorating shadow of a person. She sighs into his cloak but does not let go, and he does not seem to struggle.

“You’re leaving,” she states. And there is a long pause as he sorts out the situation in his mind, the still and deep lake that fills his skull.

“I’m leaving,” he confirms at length, his voice rumbling through his chest. It is rough from so many years of disuse, yet the coarseness of it all fits him. It is not unlike sandpaper against the smoothness of the winter air that tousles their hair.

“So soon?”

“I have to.” He pats at her arms. Reluctantly, she pulls them back and wraps them around her own self, trying to grasp onto the wisps of warmth that are being sucked from her body. He turns to her, and she sees that he has not slept, has not even prepared for a journey. He is carrying nothing but the Buster Sword. 

“You have to?”

“It’s – my –“ He stops rather than continuing to stammer, and sucks in a large gulp of icy wind. “My darkness. I have to find him before he can…” But he doesn’t finish. She takes a step closer, still shivering – she is standing before him in her thin nightgown and her trusty maroon jacket and her gardening boots and suddenly feels ridiculous. His eyes (a brilliant blue, as always) take in her appearance, but she does not feel judged by him. He holds his breath as he looks at her, a fact that does not escape her attention. 

He is so much older now, standing a head above her. The roundness of youth has been sharpened into a firm jaw and slim body, and yet it is the smaller things that remind her of his years of trials. The shadows under his eyes are tinged purple and contrast against the long, pale lashes that frame his eyes. There is a small scar on his brow, a thin white line that splits his eyebrow into two segments. His eyes are more expressive than any other feature, though they are sharp and angled and almost always slightly narrowed in thought these days.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, and reaches up with one hand to caress her face. His sword falls from his other hand into the snow with only a muffled thump. The leather of his gloves is foreign and fake against her skin, yet she can still feel his warmth through the barrier. A sudden surge of anger rises up in her – he can barely look her in the eye and tell her he’s leaving, but he has the audacity to touch her so gently? The anger is quickly overwhelmed by tides of anxiety, fear – he will be gone again, and she is not sure she can live like that anymore. Her heart settles on grief and understanding, as the two are often synonymous in situations such as these. She closes her eyes and allows him to cradle her cheek, his thumb painting gentle strokes just below her cheekbones.

She feels his lips brush against her other cheek in a soft, chaste kiss. It is akin to a nervous flutter of a bird flying for the first time, his mouth is so hesitant. And for once she is tired of his slow, deliberate actions; she opens her eyes and stares at him hard before standing up on her toes and kissing him full on the mouth, with no hint or warning. 

His surprise is apparent. Through his thin lips she can feel only bone; there is no sweetness or pressure waiting there just for her. He eases into it, and she can taste all that he is at this moment – it is mostly bitter, with a familiar sort of savor in the way he presses against her. There is an unmistakably sharp tang that can be none other than desperate need. His other hand cups her face as well and pulls her closer still, but she has never been afraid of him. She wants to pour everything she has back into him, all of her light and dark and warm and cold, if only so he would be full of more than just this acrid anger. She wants to fill him up so he will not waver when she looks at him, so that he will be opaque rather than translucent in the light of day. She wants him to be more than the shell of a person he’s become recently, and this is the only way she knows how to help him.

When her lungs ache for air, she finally pulls back, though she would love to soak up more of his heat. If he is anything, he is at least warm, she can admit that, and his cloak reaches out to remind her of this as the wind blows in her direction. He presses his forehead to hers, matting blond with brunette, and they stand like that in silence for a matter of moments. His eyes are closed, but she greedily memorizes every detail of his young face. The little scar on his eyebrow is actually sort of cute, and the shadows beneath his eyes aren’t as noticeable when his bangs are pressed against his head.

His eyes open slowly, and before he can speak, she says, “I understand,” even though she really doesn’t. “You need to.” 

Their breath billows out as steam, intermingling and heating up their little bubble. “Aerith…”

“You’ll come back,” she insists, “won’t you?”

He hesitates, but replies with difficulty, “I will.” Instead, she hears, _I am not sure, and I wish you hadn’t caught me leaving. This would have been easier if you did not meddle.  
_

“Go.”

Cloud kisses her one last time, soft and boney and warm, and then he is gone. Aerith feels winter air drag the warmth from her as she watches him leave his black footprints in the snow, trekking out into the unknown until he is nothing but a prick of scarlet on the horizon. She tugs her jacket tighter around herself and returns to the ruined castle, her toes tingling and her clavicle aching.

**Author's Note:**

> this is meant to be between kh1 and kh2, when cloud goes off to look for sephiroth in the year that sora's asleep. it's just my way of celebrating the announcement of the ff7 remake, don't mind me.


End file.
